Emberis emerged from the cave, the cold evening air a sharp contrast against his heated scales. He paused at the threshold, the lair behind him still echoing with the memory of the basilisk's death. It had been a hard-won victory that left his muscles aching and his mind sharper. But beyond the mouth of the cave, the world opened up, vast and waiting.
He drew in a long breath, tasting the air—damp earth, cool streams, and the faint, distant scents of prey. His claws flexed in the soil, feeling the pulse of life beneath him. The sun hung low, streaking the sky in molten gold and deepening crimson, shadows growing in the forest's depths.
For the first time since his awakening, he stepped into the open. No walls of stone to hold him. No immediate threats lurking in the dark. Only the wild, untamed world ahead of him.
He stretched his wings, the leathery membranes crackling and tight from disuse. Pain lanced through his shoulders where the basilisk's venom had left raw scars, but he reveled in it. Each beat of his wings sent shivers of power through his body. He lifted them again, testing the air, feeling how it curled beneath the thin skin. Freedom was within his grasp.
A boy's memory flickered—Michael's memory—of lying on his back as a child, watching birds wheel overhead and wishing he could join them. That wish was no longer a dream.
He crouched, muscles coiling like springs. The forest loomed around him, ancient trees swaying in the evening breeze. With a final push, he launched himself skyward.
The first few beats of his wings were clumsy and unsure. He lurched upward in ragged bursts, the ground dropping away in jolts. A surge of panic rose in him—I'm going to fall!—but he forced it down. The dragon's will was unyielding. Each stroke grew steadier as he pushed through the fear.
The air tore at his face, cold and invigorating. His roar split the sky, fierce and exultant, echoing across the treetops.
He rose above the canopy and saw the world stretch out below: rolling hills blanketed in emerald, rivers weaving through the valleys like silver threads. In the distance, the glint of snow-capped mountains caught the last of the day's light.
A thrill shivered through him. The dragon's instincts urged him to hunt and claim, but Michael's voice lingered, steady and watchful.
He banked to the left, letting the wind carry him in wide arcs. Each motion grew easier as he learned to read the air's subtle shifts and adjust his wings to ride the currents. His body burned with effort, but it was a fire that brought him alive.
Below, he caught sight of a herd of deer grazing in a clearing. The dragon in him tasted the promise of meat and blood, the thrill of the chase. His throat burned with the urge to dive.
But he held back. Michael's memories reminded him: Don't waste your strength. Choose your moment. He circled above the deer, silent and unseen, the shadow of death itself. And then he turned away, letting them be.
He flew higher, the forest falling away beneath him as night crept in. The air was cool and smelled of pine, of life and quiet secrets. In the distance, he saw a thin wisp of smoke rising into the sky.
Curious, he angled lower. There was a village tucked among the trees, small and fragile, wooden walls and thatched roofs. Warm light from hearth fires flickered, and voices drifted faintly in the evening air.
A pang of homesickness tugged at him. Michael's memories of crowded streets and warm voices, of belonging and laughter, stirred something deep inside. The ache of familiarity was sharp, but the dragon's voice spoke quietly: "You are not that anymore. You are more."
He hovered in the sky, a silent watcher. The village was small and vulnerable. He could end it with a single breath of fire, claim the night as his own. But the human voice in his mind urged caution: "Not yet. Watch and learn."
The wind shifted, and he drifted down to land in a small clearing. The ground shuddered under his weight, birds startled from the branches. The forest wrapped around him in deepening darkness. He folded his wings and let his breath slow. His muscles ached, but he welcomed the pain. It was proof of life.
A flicker of movement caught his eye. A stag stood at the edge of the trees, antlers wide and proud, its eyes wide with fear. The predator in him urged him to hunt, to feast. But he only watched, feeling the dragon's hunger and Michael's restraint. He let the stag go and turned back to the shadows.
He had survived the lair, claimed his first kill, and tested the power of his wings. But beyond the forest lay stronger foes, cunning prey, and ancient magics that would not yield easily.
He took a deep breath, feeling the night air cool in his lungs. Two voices inside him, both his and not—Michael's quiet patience and the dragon's wild hunger. He would learn to balance them, to be both.
For now, he would watch. He would learn. And when the time came, he would rise.
With one last look at the distant glow of the village, Emberis turned back to the forest's darkness. The night welcomed him, and he welcomed it in return.
The next hunt would come soon. And he would be ready.